


Baby Lets Go

by Daryl_Alenko



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Character Death, Dark, Gun Violence, M/M, Minor Violence, Non-Canonical Character Death, Suicide, read the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 07:33:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12127614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daryl_Alenko/pseuds/Daryl_Alenko
Summary: Stiles dies, by his own hand, to save all of those he loves.





	1. Stiles

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter will be based around a character reacting to Stiles' death.
> 
> Please don't hate me.
> 
> Inspired by this song: [Hold On](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ofCZObsnOo)

* * *

The thing about a Spark, is that it is a catalyst. It is the potential for something to catch fire. True, it may do little more than produce an ember that will flare to life for a singular, beautiful moment and then die away in a slow burn. 

But it can also become a towering inferno that will reduce everything in it's wake to ash and soot. A truth no one knows better than Derek Hale, and that thought, that **-truth-** , terrifies Stiles. It causes an ache deep inside of him, the knowledge that Derek lost every thing he cared about to fire. That he has lived with the intimate knowledge of what a single Spark can do.

Because Stiles is a Spark. He is a catalyst that allows the impossible to take place, as long as he believes hard enough. Well, okay, he can't make -every- impossible thing happen, of course. He cannot bring Derek's family back again, can't resurrect his Mom or make gold from iron. There are things that will always be just beyond his reach. Imagine his horror, however, when he found out that -he- doesn't have to be the one to engage the Spark for it to work. Yeah, Deaton kinda dropped the ball on that one. If the Emissary had spoken a single word about the potential for the Spark to be used against them ... well, the ending would still be the same, wouldn't it?

* * *

"Stiles ..." A deep, velvet chuckle makes a chill run down his spine. Forces cold deep into his aching bones as he struggles against the black ropes that are cutting into his wrists and bare ankles. He is a bloody mess of pain. Rope burns, knife cuts across his stomach, chest, and for some reason he cannot even -begin- to comprehend, his ass. He stinks of copper and dirt, of mountain ash, hyssop (sacrifice), rhododendron (danger), and tansy (hostile thoughts). They create an aroma of terror that is eating away at him. He wonders if they are as much to scare him as they are part of whatever ritual the witch is trying to pull off.

"I almost wish I could say that it will be alright, child. That all of this will fall away to the past and that you will overcome. But you really, really won't." The witch is old. Probably somewhere in her 60's, with short cropped salt and pepper hair and a hooked nose that could almost be right out of a fairytale. If this weren't real life staring him down like the barrel of a gun. "But I **-can-** say that I am sorry it must be you. I have sympathy for you, Stiles. You are merely a pawn to destroy the last of the Hale Pack." 

He wants to roll his eyes. Wants to spout off some hurtful, sarcastically biting remark, but his tongue feels too thick for his mouth. Swollen from pin pricks of cactus spikes coated in chive (usefulness), coriander (hidden worth), and thyme (strength). He wants to make a joke about food, but he can't. Because he knows what she has done. Why his wicked, witty tongue has been coated in this particular residue. She didn't even have to explain that part of her evil plan. The concoction is amplifying his Spark. Creating a potency that he had never even dreamed possible. He can feel the energy sparking on his tongue, vibrating under his skin, pooling in his organs. He is living, breathing power, and it horrifies and terrifies him. 

"W-w-why?" He forms the word awkwardly and too thick, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth every time he tries to breathe the W to life. He is trembling, limbs numb and cold from lack of circulation brought on by the ropes. 

"Why ask why, child? Things happened, I was scorned and denied what is rightfully mine. Of course, that is my own fault. If I had been more reticent to trust that bastard Peter, this would not be necessary." Oh god. He's going to do something unforgivable because Creeper 2.0 did something stupid. Again. Why the hell does the Alpha let that son of a bitch stay!? 

Okay, so maybe now isn't the time to rail against the existence of Peter Hale.

"Right, then. Let us begin, Genim." Stiles feels as if he's been electrocuted, his entire body jerking against the black rope that binds him. His eyes are wide and uncomprehending, because how did she find out his real name? So few actually -know- it! He tries to drink in a breath to ease the burning in his lungs, but he is met with resistance.

"As above, so below .." She murmurs, pulling a long wooden match from her pocket. She strikes it against a long, perfectly manicured nail and Stiles' mouth taste even more like blood. "As within, so without." She stares at the bright burning flame for a moment before she places it against the charred wick of a black candle. He watches with trepidation as the candle sputters to life, the flame burning a dark red. It looks .. it almost looks like burning blood and he wants to sick up. Wants to scream at the top of his lungs, but there's no point, is there? Who would hear him in the middle of the Preserve?? "As the universe, so the soul." She murmurs softly, tipping the candle so that the bubbly wax falls into a nondescript pewter goblet. There is a hiss and sizzle, smoke wafting up in lazy curls and his stomach turns.

She blows the flame out and sets the candle to the side before she dips another perfectly manicured finger inside of the goblet and collects the sickly, vile black and red contents. He watches her lift his ripped shirt, tearing it off the rest of the way before she begins to draw her coated nail across his abdomen. A hysterical laugh erupts from his busted lips as he watches the rune Hagalaz (Looks like an H with the middle line drawn on the bias) being drawn on his pale skin. The hysteria is because it is also called 'hail,' so very close to the name of his Alpha. 

He nearly swallows his tongue when he cries out in pain. Because it means destruction .... and chaos. He can feel heat building under his skin. It feels .. oh god, it feels like the wax has begun to melt and flow through his veins. As if it is filling him up, replacing every ounce of blood with a dark, powerful **-need-**. He whines, whimpers deep and painful and can feel the beginnings of tears pooling in the corners of his tired eyes.

"I bind you, Genim Stilinski." She speaks the words with a lilt of sorrow that mocks him. "I bind your Spark to my will. I bind you through ash, blood, and fire. I claim your Spark for my own. I bind you to my will and deed." She coos the word deed and he can feel his heart tripping painfully beneath his breast. This ... there is no way in Heaven, Hell, or 'tween that this can end well. All he can hope for, is to minimize the damage.

"Fuck you, bitch." He seethes the words out, thick tongue pricking and aching but he manages to speak his mind, as crude as it comes out. She merely laughs ... throws her head back and laughs melodic and mad to the dark skies above.

"Sorry, dear, but this isn't the heroic moment where someone saves the day in just the nick of time. This is the moment when you feel my magic running through your veins. Latching onto your powerful Spark and giving it to me. You are now mine, Genim Stilinski. Relax, my dear, and try not to fight it. All it will do is hurt like hell and you will still end up doing what I need you to do." Her lips part into a smile that is wolfish, that shows too much teeth despite the fact that she's a human. "So mote it be." She hisses the words and turns, throwing the entire goblet into a small fire a few feet away.

His knees buckle. He falls face first into the ground and screams louder, more painful, and more sorrowful than a Banshee as he feels his entire body light on fire from the inside out. His eyes roll back into his head, his teeth gnashing mindlessly even as blood spills from the corners of his mouth. 

"Shh. It's alright, my dear boy. You are the instrument of my destruction. You should be **-proud-**! Even Alan could not have given you such a true, meaningful purpose. You will die to bring about the karmic destruction of a family that has plagued this town for generations. True ... many, _many_ innocents will be hurt in the process, but that is one part of the price that must be paid. Your life is the other. But come now, we both know you would have amounted to little more than a tool for the Hale Pack to use at their whim." Her hand reaches down, fingers tangling in his hair, carding through the strands in some twisted version of petting and he screams again. Tastes the musky, earthy tang of dirt being swallowed down his shredded throat, but nothing is making the ache better.

He is vaguely aware, some undefinable time later, of the ropes being tugged free. Like a puppet with severed strings, his limbs crash back to earth and he can do little more than whimper. The pain of his release is barely a drop in the ocean of the agony coursing through him. 

"Now, Genim. It is time. You are going to implement my plan of chaos and destruction. You are going to run, boy. As swift as you can! Make your way to the middle of town, you have an hour. Once there, your Spark is going to explode. From the inside out, you will become a walking bomb to burn this town to the ground! RUN!" He yelps, his appendages working without his permission as he levers himself from the ground and takes off. His pace is faster, swifter than he has ever managed before. Not even the harshest lacrosse practice has seen his feet so sure and true. He screams at the top of his lungs, the wordless cry echoing around the trees as he runs to do the bitch's bidding.

* * *

The other thing about a Spark, is that it is based in belief. Not the kind of Spark that starts a fire, of course, but the kind of Spark that defies the impossible, though it, too, has limitations.

Stiles has cleared the Preserve and made it halfway into town, despite his current condition. His feet are bleeding profusely, cut to ribbons by rocks, stickers, and branches. Even the sidewalks and asphalt have left their mark on his destroyed flesh. He is huffing and wheezing for breath, sweat pouring down into his eyes, pooling at the small of his back just above his ruined jeans. He feels dirty and disgusting, but it is nothing compared to every thing shifting and burning inside of him. His Spark has become the fuse of lit dynamite and before his time runs out, so many people are going to burn. He throws his head back, screams in agony to the heavens and wishes that SOMEONE, ANYONE would be lurking in the streets to realize what is going on. But when has his luck ever been that fucking good??

He is struggling to add some order to the chaos of his thoughts. He can feel it. A frayed string somewhere deep in the core of his being that is struggling not to dissolve completely. He tries to reach out for it. Not physically, but mentally, spiritually, on a fucking biological level if it will work! He turns all of his need, desire, and **belief** toward the idea that he must access that single strand of control and somehow maintain it long enough to change the path of his pounding feet.

Just as his head is beginning to toss back for another guttural scream of pain, he feels himself smashing into something. It takes a long moment, after he has rebounded, for him to realize that he has accidentally smacked into someone that was jogging in the opposite direction of himself.

".. Stiles?" Some soft, subtly concerned, vaguely familiar voice speaks his name as a question, but he is already barrelling past the solid object. But it's enough. Almost half a block away, he realizes that the collision was -enough- because he's no longer running full tilt for the centre of town, but instead, flying toward his own home. The very symbol of safety and shelter to him. It is one of two places that he feels completely safe. (The other is in the presence of his Alpha, even if he has never been able to speak those words out loud. He playfully tells himself that it's only because he doesn't want to inflate Derek's already immense Alpha-Ego.)

With trembling hands, he wrenches his front door open, not bothering to try and close it behind him. He is barely maintaining enough conscious thought to pound up the stairs and into his room. He wrenches the middle drawer of his desk open, retrieving a pocket knife that Derek had gotten him recently. It had been a 'for no reason' present that had pretty much blew Stiles' mind and left him feeling all flushed and wonderfully confused all over. 

And now, he must taint that 'for no reason' present and put it to a purpose that he knows is going to destroy so much. Even if he has no way to fully define his situation with Derek, he knows that the Alpha is going to take this like a physical blow and it breaks his heart that he has no choice but to do it anyway.

He turns and throws himself through his bedroom door, stumbling down the hall to his bathroom. He kicks the door closed, managing to lock it before he falls against the side of the tub. With the pocket knife clenched between his teeth, he stops up the tub and turns the cold water on high. 

His breath has become a shallow, struggling process. Part in due to the overwhelming pain of what's happening inside of him, part in due to the overwhelming fear of what he's about to do. Or, maybe fear isn't the right word. There is some trace of it present, because how could it not be? But as with every moment in his life, he is at peace with the thought that he has to do this to save Beacon Hills, to save those he loves. It is no different than holding Derek up, facing down a wolfed out and pissed off Scott, or running the Kanima over with his Jeep.

Once the water is high enough, he shuts it off, yanks the knife out of his mouth and opens the largest blade. He keeps it unreasonably sharp, given the many kinds of use he may have for the small weapon/tool. He sucks in a deep breath, because he can already feel it happening. Can feel the scream building deep inside of himself, rumbling and vibrating through his chest even before he yanks the knife down, along the vein in his wrist. He did a paper once, on the various causes of teen suicide and in his need to over-research everything, he had read an article about the 'correct' way to do it. Not side to side, because it barely nicks the vein, but top to bottom, so that you follow it. Maximum blood flow. 

When the knife tumbles out of his hand, the cut too deep to let him transfer the blade, he does the only thing he can. He shoves the end of the knife into his mouth, teeth clamping down so hard that they hurt, and arches his head to bury the knife into his other wrist and yank down. By this time, the scream has ripped out of his mouth. His throat spasming with how sharp, loud, and raw the sound is. 

Trembling, knees knocking painfully against the side of the tub, he shoves his profusely bleeding wrists into the cold water, until he is practically hanging off the side of it. His forehead rests against the cold porcelain and he sobs sloppily. His vision is already dimming, even as an ungodly itch roars just beneath his skin. He's supposed to be close to the centre of town by now, but it doesn't matter. As his blood flows into the water surrounding his wrists, becoming a strange pink swirl, he can feel his Spark diminishing. He hopes the bitch that started all of this can -feel- her plans failing. With his death, she has no hope of revenge. Not even Deaton's Spark is strong enough to turn into a walking bomb. Even as he sobs, his mind stuck somewhere between celebrating the thwarting of her plans, and lamenting every thing he has lost, he begins to laugh weakly. He wins ... even through losing, he wins. She can go to hell!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each end Note will contain a song for the soundtrack of this fic. Basically, the songs I listened to, to inspire this.
> 
> Stiles - Lost It All, Black Veil Brides


	2. Derek

* * *

He has been uneasy for several days now, his instincts riding some fine edge between hyper-vigilant and confused. Every other minute, his heart seems to beat a little too fast, his senses sharpen into an unrelenting awareness that leaves him feeling tired and worn out. He remembers Stiles talking about this feeling .. how the hell the human managed to survive it, he has no clue! But it increases the amount of respect and awe he has for his packmate. 

Head tipped back, his nostrils flare. He has been running the edge of the Preserve for nearly an hour now, soaking in the familiar comfort of the territory he has known since the day he was born, no matter how much it has changed over the years. It feels good, being able to do this. Knowing that after everything that happened, he can still have a home here. Can have family and pack. It lightens something deep inside of him. Allows some unknown spot to unclench and unfurl. 

Of course, -that- would be the moment everything goes to shit, wouldn't it?

Just as he's about to lower his head, just as he nears a spot that has become an anchor all on it's own, he smells it. The overwhelming scent of rusted metal, coppery tang, cinnamon and sour lemon. It draws him up short, nearly sends him skidding into a tree as he struggles to 'apply the brakes' before he ends up running right past the all too familiar scent of Stiles' blood.

That should not, in -any- circumstance, be a -familiar- scent, but it really, really is. Because he knows. He has smelled hints of Stiles' blood for as long as he's known him. Every bruise that brought blood just beneath the surface of that beautiful, pale skin. The split lip. Every accidental scratch when he ran with the pack ... too many instances to familiarize himself with that strangely acidic, spiced, and metallic scent. 

His claws are out, every muscle tensed in preparation for fight or flight, though he knows which one it will be. Even if it wasn't Stiles blood on the wind, he would fight before he would run. But this .. this is more. An intangible instinct to slash and claw. To eviscerate and revel in the destruction of something because _**Stiles**_. He feels his feet pointing in the direction the wind is blowing from, his eyes snapping closed for a moment as he fights the shifting of his eyes. (Though he allows his teeth to sharpen and elongate, eager to taste the blood of whatever enemy has hurt his own.)

* * *

His steps are swift and sure, his body twisting and curving to rebound off trees, to leap fallen logs and manipulate his body into whatever running position will get him to his destination quickest. His throat is aching, dry and clicking with every swallow as he struggles to retain enough of his human mind that he will understand whatever situation he's about to burst in on. Too many times, he has allowed himself to rush in heard first and mess up so badly. If Stiles is in trouble, he must be capable of keeping enough of a level head that he can rescue him without putting him in unneeded danger. Because if Stiles gets hurt again ... there's no way he will be able to handle that in his current frame of mind. The wolf, the feral wilderness contained deep in his core, will unleash hell on earth in the name of vengeance for his human.

He draws up short once more, nostrils flaring dangerously when the stench of Stiles' blood becomes so overwhelming that he gags on it. His throat closes, one clawed hand reaching up to squeeze and press against it, trying to restore some sense of normality as he tries to breathe -around- the horrid stench of vitae.

Stiles is alright. 

That is the mantra he repeats on an endless loop in his head as he carefully picks his way through the last trees separating him from his human. The scent of blood and Stiles has become so overwhelming that he has considered lifting his shirt to cover his nose, but he knows that it would do no good. Stiles' everything is too ingrained in his senses for him to escape it. He forces himself to breathe, despite the heavy copper tang. His fingers flex, claws crooked in preparation to fight, even if he is trying to think first.

"It took you long enough, Alpha Hale." The sudden sugary sweet, feminine voice makes his teeth hurt and his heart jump in painful, unsuitable ways. He needs no reminder that he is facing the weakness of not knowing. The weakness of worrying over his packmate's well-being. Even as he jerks around to face the unfamiliar threat, he feels a low level sense of pride simmering beneath his skin. Forcing himself to withdraw from his primal side enough to remain cognizant has allowed him enough brainpower to immediately realize that, while his nose is flooded with Stiles' scent, there is one VERY important thing that is missing from the situation; Stiles' heartbeat. The trip trip trip thumpthump thumpthump jackrabbit beat is completely missing. Which means one of two things ... either Stiles isn't here anymore, managed to outrun his possible captor, or he is .. is .... Derek swallows back the howl of anguish that wants to rip from him. His fear, his anger, his instinct has ratcheted up several hundred notches, because if Stiles is dead, this bitch, and maybe this town, will burn. 

"What the hell are you doing here?!" He roars the question around his mouthful of razor sharp teeth, claws flexed and ready at his sides as he allows his sharp, perceptive gaze to take in as much as he can without looking away from her completely. 

A circle of mountain ash, which makes no sense, since Stiles was human. There must have been some other reason for the line. He can see the dark maroon stain of blood splashed and pooled within the circle and he doesn't have to get any closer to know that it's Stiles' blood spilled there. His anger climbs to previously unknown heights, but he wrestles it down as best he can. Else he lunge for the bitch and kill her before he understands what's happening here. 

"Come now, what does every other creature come here for, Alpha Hale?" Her words are cold and mocking, and he wants to rip her tongue out with his claws and shove it down her throat that the tricky tongue may gag her. "I'm here for your Pack, Alpha. And before you start whining and demanding to know -why-, the answer is simple; Peter pissed me off. Well, more than pissed me off, really, but all that matters is that I am going to kill everyone in this sorry little speck of a town because of your bloodline, dear." He feels his stomach roil and loosen. Of course. Because -of course- Peter would do -something- to bring fire and brimstone raining down on their hometown. As if Beacon Hills didn't already face so many unfair things. At least when he was Alpha, it was the insanity that brought about such fates. But now? 

"How?" He feels himself sagging a little. Struggling to hold onto his righteous anger in the hopes of having some chance to stop this. Defeat her and save his home, his pack.

"Now -that- part, isn't simple in the least, really." She huffs and glances toward the circle, her lips pursing into a frown that is almost pained. It makes him feel cold and clammy all over. "I am afraid I had to use your Mate. It truly pains me, that I had need of one so young and innocent .. so fucking PURE. But, he was the Spark, and I needed it. If I could have spared anyone in this town, it would have been your pretty little Mate. Alas, instead, he is the device through which I will have my revenge. I took that Spark and amplified it into a raging inferno that will engulf this entire town in fire and death. He's a walking bomb. In just about .. fifteen minutes or so, he is going to explode in the centre of town, and --" Her words become a gurgling mess when his claws are shoved through her throat. He can feel the slick slice of her muscle as he severs her head from her body at the throat. 

He watches in silent fury as her head falls back and rolls across the ground. He flicks his fingers, hearing the thick, sickening squelch of blood slinging out to wet the trees before he turns and takes off. Running as fast as inhumanly possible to get out of the Preserve.

* * *

His feet are throbbing, each step too fierce and painful to allow for healing for more than a few seconds before he has shredded them on his shoes all over again. His claws have ripped into his jeans at his hips, pieces of denim lost somewhere along the way as he fights his full shift. Some part of his brain is still conscious enough to realize that he cannot wolf out and run through the heart of town, no matter how important Stiles is to him. No matter what is happening, he -must- protect the secret. As much as he cares about Stiles, he cannot risk the rest of his Pack to get to him quicker. (Even though he -desperately- wants to do just that. As the Alpha, he can't. He has to be responsible for them all, not betray them in favor of his own needs/desires.)

He jerks to a stop, nearly tumbling over his own feet when the overwhelming scent of Stiles' blood hits him like an immovable wall. It crashes into his senses over and over again. It takes far too long for him to realize that it is coming in waves because it is flowing with the beating of his heart.

This time, he does trip. One foot connecting sharply with the back of the other as he tries to twist around and take off too fast. His hands hit the asphalt, palms ripped instantly on the uneven ground. He grunts in pain and immediately launches himself to his feet and takes off, much like a runner at the starting line. Every instinct is telling him that there is no time to waste, even if he hasn't the first -clue- what condition Stiles will be in. Or even what situation he's walking into the middle of.

The rusted copper leads him .. to the front door of the Stilinski household, and for a single moment, Derek manages to choke out a breath of relief. Because this is the Stilinski home! It is the very definition of -safe- to the Alpha Werewolf. It is where he comes to talk to Stiles, to watch the teen research, to sneak in a nap when he needs to feel safe and secure. This house is the very definition of a -home- to him, and it takes far too long for him to remember that a home is not infallible. A home is not always safe and secure, because his family burned to death in one.

Suddenly, there just isn't enough breath. Each inhale feels like acid dripping down his esophagus, spilling into his stomach and his lungs until every moment is fiery agony. The front door is open .. the acrid aroma of blood hangs heavy in the air wafting from the open entry point and Derek isn't sure what he's going to find, but any hope from moments before has evaporated. Every thing in his is screaming at him. MATE. TROUBLE! 

He shakes himself violently and throws himself through the open doorway. He tears up the stairs, tripping twice on pools of half congealed blood before he makes it to the top. His first instinct is to go to Stiles' room, because that is where he -always- goes when he is here. Sense memory trying to direct his feet in that direction, but he doesn't go. Because he is gagging on the smell of blood concentrated at the closed bathroom door.

"Stiles!" He rushes to the door, sweaty hand slipping on the knob before he manages to get a good enough grip to realize that the door is locked. "Stiles, goddamn it, ANSWER ME!" His roar rattles the foundation of the house, causes his own unsteady body to sway where he stands. "Please .... fuck, please, Stiles .." His clawed hand is shaking where he is grasping the doorknob and he doesn't have the patience or correct frame of mind to think before acting. So he literally crushes the knob in his hand even as he throws one powerful shoulder against the wood.

The doorway splinters, wood flying everywhere as it gives way on the first try. (No shitty door was going to stand up to the shoulder of a pissed and very, -very- scared Alpha werewolf.) He stumbles into the bathroom and immediately wrenches backward. Nearly trips right back out the door when the wall of rust-scent flies into his face. He doesn't have time to process the scene laid out before him, because he's already shoving his face over the toilet to relinquish the contents of his stomach into the porcelain. 

As soon as the bile stops, he throws himself toward the body slumped against the side of the tub. His ears strain to listen for a heartbeat, but all he can hear is his own going wild and uncontrolled. The sound of blood pumping, of his own body waging a war against itself, inhibits his senses. 

"Stiles!" He growls the name, falling back on anger and harsh tones in some twisted hope that everything is going to be okay. That if he can somehow make the situation -normal-, it cannot end in disaster. (Considering every 'normal' aspect of his life has always ended in tragedy or horror, you'd think he would've learned his lesson by now.) "God, Stiles, please .." He chokes on the words as he works himself down onto his knees, next to the teen. Almost immediately, he feels the gooey cold of blood soaking and seeping into the denim of his jeans. He gags on reflex, his shaking hands reaching for the arms that are suspended on the side of the tub.

"Goddamn it, Stiles, ANSWER ME!" He roars the words, once again able to feel the house shake a little around him.

"... D..er...ek..." Stiles voice is so soft, that the darkest part of the Alpha is pretty damn sure that it's little more than wishful thinking. That he has somehow imagined the sound he desperately wants to hear. "So...rr...y...A..l..ph..a..." Each letter is whispered from lips with the effect of a punch to the gut once Derek realizes that he isn't wrong. That he -is- hearing Stiles speak.

"Shut up, Stiles." He snarls the words, his left knee slipping and sending him reeling into the side of the tub as he struggles to lift both of Stiles' arms out of the cold, sickeningly pink water. "God, what did you .. how could you .... **_Stiles_**." The teen's name is a whimper of agonized pain and grief when he sees the almost bone deep cuts down his wrists. Once more, his gorge starts to rise and he fights back the dizzying sickness as he reaches across the tub toward the towel rack. He yanks them both down, immediately wrapping one and then the other wrist, flinching in terror at how clammy, gummy the skin of his human feels. 

"Had...to...sh..e..ki..ll...to..w...n..." Stiles lips have gone slack, covered in flaked crimson that has Derek fighting down his wolf. There is nothing the feral creature can do to help their human, so he is trying to hang on to his human side.

"Stop talking, you idiot. Save your breath for me, okay?" The teen huffs out a tired, stale breath and Derek is biting through his own bottom lip before he realizes it. "I gotta lift you, alright? It's gonna hurt .. fuck, it's gonna hurt pretty bad, probably, but I gotta get you downstairs." What a time for him to really discover his words, huh? He's not sure if he's rambling for Stiles' sake .... or his own. Either way, he faces the irrational fear that if he stops talking Stiles will somehow drift away. "Okay, try and stay still, Stiles."

He carefully lifts the human into is arms, whines deep in his chest when he realizes that he feels so much lighter than usual. Is that mental? Is he just -imagining- it because of all the blood loss, or is the human truly lighter because of it?? He can feel the tug and pull of his jeans against his knees because of how thick and goopy the substance congealing there is. 

The complete absence of Stiles making any kind of sound when he's lifted and pressed to the Alpha's chest brings on a wave of panic, but he fights it down. He knows that he cannot afford to lose it right now. If he does, Stiles is dead. That will NOT happen. 

"Okay, this is gonna jolt. But I'll be as quick as I can, alright?" He breathes the words against the temple of the human he's clutching, grunting as he heads out of the bathroom and takes the stairs as quickly as he can. Soft little whimpers of discomfort spur him on, his hands clutched so tightly against the human that he knows Stiles will bruise. (If he has enough blood -to- bruise. The small, strained voice in the back of his mind nearly sets him off, nearly makes him wolf out fully.) 

"C...c...cold..." The slow slur of the word jerks Derek from his thoughts, his eyes widening when he reaches the open front door and Stiles speaks again. Cold? It's a balmy night and Stiles should be screaming in pain, not whispering about the cold. He sucks in a breath through his mouth, can taste the twang of copper and it is even worse than the smell of it. Some part of him fantasized about tasting Stiles' blood on his tongue, but not like this. In the throes of passion, in the offering of allegiance and self, but not like this!

"It's okay, Stiles, it's okay. We'll get you warmed up. It's fine." He carefully places Stiles in the passenger side of the beat up old jeep, whining deeply when the teen moans in pain. His hands hover for a moment, desperate to take action but with no clue what that action should be. He turns and rushes back into the house, returning half a minute later to drape a heavy blanket across the teen. Some half formed memory of keeping humans warm so that they do not go into shock, surfacing. 

He skirts the jeep and throws himself into the driver's seat, barely closing the door before he has cranked the vehicle and sends them barrelling toward the hospital.

* * *

The drive was unnerving. The unending silence from the passenger seat is beating him over the head, reminding him of the fragility of the human that he failed to protect. The windows are down, tepid air barely managing to filter the manky scent of blood from the vehicle. Every few seconds, he finds himself glancing over, making sure that Stiles is still breathing. The faint rise and fall of the blanket surrounding him is the only indication, the Alpha's senses still too overwhelmed to be able to concentrate on heartbeat or respiration from the human. 

Almost halfway to the hospital, as he takes a corner far too fast but still feeling too slow, he realizes that Stiles has shifted on the seat. On instinct, he reaches out to press his palm against the human's chest and nearly roars when he feels nothing stirring beneath. 

"We're almost there, Stiles. I swear, we're almost there, and Melissa will make sure you're okay. I'll call your Dad, and even Scott. I know you'll want him there with you. The entire Pack will come, and we'll watch over you, and you'll be okay, Stiles." His fingers curl into the material of the blanket, hand shaking uncontrollably as he takes another corner and guns the engine. Because he can feel it.

With each breath, with each beat of his own heart, he can feel Stiles fading. Fuck, if he concentrated really hard, he's nearly convinced that he would see Stiles' Spark escaping like vapor from his beautiful, blood soaked lips and he really, -really- doesn't want to see that. Could not survive if he saw that. His own soul would rush to join Stiles' Spark, he's sure of it.

"Come on, Stiles ... damn it, I know you're stronger than this. You just have to hang in there, okay? You can't ... damn it, you just -can't-!!! Please don't leave me!" His trembling hand migrates to the boy's neck. Fingers curl against the nape, nails barley biting into the vulnerable flesh there, though not hard enough to leave any marks. No, when he gets to mark his human for the first time, Stiles will be conscious and consenting. And then, he will wear Derek's mark proudly, and things will be okay. Good, even. 

A half hysterical howl bubbles up and out, filling the interior of the Jeep, because he is doing the unthinkable. He is trying to plan for a future that is already looking nonexistent. As if, somehow, simply by **_willing_** it, he can make Stiles safe and sound enough that they may have a chance at a future. That's not even adding in the fact that should Stiles survive, the Spark may not even want him. Another hysterical howl erupts and his hand is yanked back from the human in favor of beating his fist against the steering wheel. He can feel it creak and crack and the howl becomes a feral sob. 

It feels like an eternity before the hospital comes into view. He must struggle not to gun he engine to get them there those few seconds quicker. Instead, he comes to a screeching halt, arm cast across Stiles to keep him from hitting the dash before he throws the car into park and rushes out of it. He scoops Stiles gingerly into his arms and turns, running through the emergency doors.

"Someone find Melissa McCall!" He snarls the order, baring his thankfully human teeth at a nurse that approaches. "Tell her Stiles is hurt!" He roars at the same nurse, who jerks back and takes off at a run for the nurse's station. At the same time, a doctor comes rushing forward.

"Did you say Stiles? That's -Stiles-??" The man is wearing a grave, determined expression and Derek feels something unclench and calm inside of him. Whoever the human is, he seems to understand the gravity of the situation. So, he nods, unable to find his voice any longer. He has spoken enough to last a few months, and his throat hurts. Hell, his -heart- hurts. "Get him on the gurney. Now." The Alpha bristles at the order, but carefully deposits Stiles' still form, whimpering when he hears Stiles whine in pain. 

"Derek? What on Earth is -- STILES!?!" Melissa comes rushing forward, colliding with the Alpha in her haste to reach Stiles' bedside. "What did you do, Hale!? What the hell happened to Stiles!?" Melissa's small hands lift, beating at his chest and he makes no move to stop her. No move to intercede, because some part of him probably thinks he deserves this. (He does. He really, -really- does. Stiles got hurt because of his family.)

"I didn't -do- anything, Ms. McCall. I got him here as soon as I found him. He .. he .." The words are choking him. Clogging up his tight throat even as he feels another sob tumble out. "He tried to kill himself, Melissa. He .. he filled his tub with cold water. When I got there, he had ... cut into his wrists ... shoved them in the water. He was dying draped over the side of his tub!" He is falling. Failing. He can feel the carefully constructed walls deep inside crumbling down and there is nothing he can do about it. Just ride the tide of shifting change and pray that he will not be broken beyond recognition when it is done.

"Oh, Derek ..." Melissa whispers the words, her shaky arms going around the large werewolf as if -she- is somehow scared -he- is fragile and vulnerable and she would be completely right. He's on the edge of everything conceivable and her arms feel so much like an Anchor that he is grateful for her in this moment. "Whatever happened, why he did this, we'll see to him, okay? We have the best doctors in the ER, okay?" She squeezes him and for the first time since his Mom died, he lets himself break down in a Mother's arms. He drags in a breath and exhales a deep, chest rumbling sob as the scent of Stiles' blood lodges even further in his nose. As his ears struggle, -fight- to find the normally rapid beat of the human's heart, now reduced to some frail whisper. 

"He has to be okay ... he can't leave me. He can't." He's rambling, spilling secrets as easily as bitter salt water spills down his cheeks. "God, I can't believe he would do this ..." He snuffles, sniffles and shivers in her strong, Motherly arms and feels them cradle him all the closer.

"He had to have his reason, Derek. You -know- Stiles .. he never would've done this, unless he thought he was saving everyone he cares about. When he wakes up, you can ask him, okay? Our boy is -strong-. He'll be okay." She tips up to press a dry kiss to his cheek and he crumbles even further under her care. His forehead comes to rest on her shoulder, his eyes squeezed so tightly closed that he sees a rainbow of colored spots splayed across his lids. 

"Sit down, Derek, before you fall, kid. I'll be back as soon as I know something." He allows himself to be guided to a seat, slowly sinking into the faux-leather, wincing as it squeaks and creaks beneath him. His hands grasp at her scrub sleeves, eager to cling to the only Motherly figure he has, even if she doesn't view him in such a way. She gently, sympathetically peels his hands off and moves away, chasing after the retreating gurney that holds her surrogate son on it.

Wheezing, trembling and altogether barely holding himself together, Derek pulls his cellphone out and calls up Scott's number. Not surprising in the -least-, the phone goes to voicemail after several rings, causing Derek to laugh hysterically at the beginning of his message.

"God. For once in your fucking life, you couldn't just pick up the goddamn phone, could you, Scott?!? No, of course not. What the fuck do you care if it might be a life and death situation, right? RIGHT?! Because ALLISON is always going to be more important!" He's seething. Gagging on each breath he draws in so that he can scream loud and longer into the phone clutched at his ear. "Well guess what, it finally happened, Scott! Stiles is -dying- and you're not answering your goddamn phone. Again. FUCK! Every time we've needed you, you've blown us off until it suited you to come and help. Guess this time, you'll get here too late. he ... he's dying, Scott. I can't even hear his heartbeat anymore. I'm pretty sure he stopped breathing at least twice on the way to the emergency room. Your Mom .. she's gone to check on him. I'm ... I don't know what to -do- Scott! He could die .. probably -is- dying .." He sobs into the phone, curling into himself. He pulls his feet up, into the seat, crushes his knees to his chest as he wraps himself around them. Trying to make himself as small as possible. When he and Laura went on the run, he did it a lot. Curled into as small a ball as he could .. tried to make himself as small and insignificant as he could. And now, he's doing it again .. because he's terrified that he's going to lose Stiles before he ever even had a chance with him. "I should've told him everything, Scott, but I was a fucking coward. All the fights, all the arguing .. I never should've let it happen." He sniffles, feeling snot and tears congealing on his face and he just doesn't care. "If anything happens to Stiles .. Scott. If he dies, you have to stop me. Whatever I do, stop me! Become the Alpha that everyone deserves, okay? God knows I fucked that up pretty badly. Just ... you know what to do, McCall. I .. I'm sorry. I don't think I got there quick enough to save him. It's my fault .." He snaps his thumb against the end call button, wincing as he shoves his mobile back into his pocket. 

He tilts his head, lets his temple come to rest against his trapped knees as he sobs softly into the denim of his jeans, forgetting in his sorrow to call anyone else. No, the breaking of his heart is too deep, too full, to pick his phone back up and dial anyone else.

* * *

Time is useless. There is no familiar sound to clock the ticking of minutes as they crawl by. Instead, he is staring off somewhere in the distance, paying no mind to anything going on around him. Occasionally, a sound or scent will break through his reverie. Something moving at the edge of his vision will begin to draw him back to reality, but then he shivers, shudders, or just shakes, and finds himself returning to that in-between place. 

"Damn it, we're losing him!" The sound is a sharp contrast to the background noise of people moving about. It draws a sudden sense of clarity to the Alpha and leaves him panting to try and recover his breath. Because he recognizes the voice, of course. It's the doctor from earlier. The one so full of determination, that -knew- Stiles. "Clear!" The shrill scream of his voice is accompanied by the sound of a monitor registering a flat-line. And the electric jolt of the paddles being pressed to Stiles' chest to try and force his heart to beat. 

"Clear!" Hum, zap, curse. "Clear!" Hum, zap, curse. "CLEAR!!" HUM, ZAP, CURSE!! Each sound of electricity flowing causes Derek to sob and jerk, as if -he- is the one being electrocuted. Maybe, he is. Maybe, somehow, someway, he is feeling what Stiles' lifeless body is feeling.

"Damn it! Come on, Stiles!" The doctor's voice is curt, angry. Demanding something of the human teen that just may not be possible anymore. "CLEAR!!" The zap this time brings Derek to his knees. He slides right out of the chair, hitting his gummy, blood soaked knees with a whimper that is barely above a whisper. 

This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper ... some half remembered quote from his childhood surfaces in his mind and he throws his head back. Sobs and howls to the heavens as he hears the words he has been fearing since he found Stiles cut up in his bathroom.

"Nurse McCall .. C-Call it .. Time of Death ... 12:33 am." Derek screams. His jaws fall open, his eyes snap closed and he screams at the top of his lungs. It is more effect in spilling the true depth of his grief than any howl, roar, snarl, or something animalistic could have. 

"D-Derek .. I'm so sorry, he ... he .." Ms. McCall is barely whispering from wherever she is in the hospital, but it may as well be a shout in his supernatural ears. He shoves himself hastily to his feet, already feeling his claws come out. His fangs drop. He runs full tilt for the doors of the emergency room, running past the Jeep that is still idling and tearing off toward the woods. His clothes are ripped away, tatters falling wherever the hell they want as he shifts into his Alpha form. Once he is safely -away- from the unmoving body of his Mate, he throws his head back and howls as loud and as long as he can. Rakes his claws over his own body, tearing away chunks of fur and flesh as he struggles to cope with what has happened. As he tries to mourn the loss of three futures; Stiles', his own, and the possible future they may have shared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek - Hold On, Chord Overstreet


	3. Melissa

* * *

One hour. 60 minutes. Such a small increment of time compared to the grand scheme of a human life. And yet, in that hour, every aspect of her life has changed. She can feel the numbness creeping up, into her limbs. Making each arm feel as if it weighs a ton. The simple act of pushing her hair off her face has become an Olympic sporting event and every breath is a marathon sprint. No matter how hard she tries, everything is moving in some strange sense of slow motion.

Because Stiles is dead. No matter how many times she repeats that phrase in her mind, it doesn't make sense. Doesn't become -real-. 

Stiles is dead.

Stiles .. is ..... dead.

The chill of the morgue does little to penetrate the numbness spreading through her. She knows that she should be cold. That she should register -something- of the environment around her, but she can't. Her world has morphed, shrunk to little more than the sluggish workings of her own body, and the thin white sheet spread out across the ... the ... oh god, the BODY. Is it still Stiles under there? Can she somehow reconcile the motionless body beneath the sheet with the teenage boy she has known for most of his life??

She sucks in a breath, winces when the chill of the morgue air finally manages to pierce the bubble of failing perception she's cloaked in. It stings her throat mercilessly and she swallows a hiccup that wants to be a sob. 

Stiles is dead. 

Never again will she intercept Stiles and Scott doing something silly and teenage. Stiles will no longer welcome himself into their home with his key or show up unannounced to drag Scott of to do Lord only knows what. Oh god. Stiles won't be there to watch Scott's back, to make sure that her son comes home to her no matter what.

That hiccup escapes this time, blossoming from spit slick lips to bleed into a sob that echoes off the reinforced walls. It ricochets right back at her, tearing into her ears, ripping deep beneath her skin to claw at her heart. She will never hear her little boy laugh again. Will never reach out to steady the overactive young man that looks as if he could vibrate right out of his own skin when something excites him. There will be no late night texts when Stiles' stream of consciousness snags upon a medical question that he has to have answered before he can move forward to the next thought. Or, given the way his mind works .... oh, fuck, WORKED .. she nearly hyperventilates at that thought correction. The way his mind WORKED, he would already be on to three new subjects before he finished the text to question her. 

Because that's how brilliant her baby boy was. Is. Is .. was ..... it's too early for the truth to fully sink in. She will have to refer to him in the past tense. Her boy is a was, not an is ....

She never tried to replace Claudia. What would be the point in that? Claudia will always be his Mom, but she was Mama McCall, a job she damn well took -seriously-! His happiness and safety were the same level priority as that of her own son. Because never has she seen two people become brothers so quickly. She had little choice but to welcome the boy into her family and despite everything that has happened, it's not a decision she has -ever- regretted. To know Stiles Stilinski was to know a unique, beautiful creature that should be treasured and cherished. 

She knows that they all failed at that, at one point or another. The death of Claudia turned John into a shell of the man he once was and sadly, it is only within the last few months that he seems to have fully straightened himself out and reconnected with his son. 

Scott will always be Stiles' brother, but the changes he faced lately have allowed him to shirk that commitment a little. She knows that his first love has a lot to do with that. She also knows that Stiles forgave him. What brother wouldn't?

The Pack ... god, just the fact that there -is- a Pack is something she's struggling with. The supernatural is real and she's pretty sure that she just heard the local Alpha lose his mind when Stiles' heart stopped. The nurse in her wants to walk out those doors and comfort those that lost Stiles. But the Mom in her .... the Mom in her wants to beat at her chest, rip her scrubs and sob her poor, broken little heart out for what she has lost.

She settles for parting her lips and trying to scream. She struggles to force the sound of breaking out of her mouth, but nothing more than a parched breath escapes. She cannot even find the strength to vocalize her loss. So, she does the next best thing. One hand lifts, fingers digging into the material of her scrub top. Twisting and rending the fabric between sharpened nails. Her other hand rises to twine heavily in her wavy hair. Tugging and snapping the strands in hopes that it will somehow register on her frayed nerves.

Stiles.

Is.

Dead!

Finally, it comes. Between one breath and the next, something shatters in her throat and a baleful scream filters out. Reverberates across the walls and bounces back at her with the force of a Banshee scream. Every raw, negative emotion bubbles up, wailed from aching lungs. Her fingers dig deeper into her top, the material shredding beneath the onslaught but she doesn't care. It's just fabric ... material ... nothing to worry over.

"S-Stiles!" She weeps his name, lips pursed in a half scream moments before she lunges forward. She yanks the pale white sheet back to reveal his motionless features. He looks ... god, the cliche is so true. He looks as if he were sleeping. Features slack and innocent in a way they had never been when he was awake and animated. For the first time since Claudia's death, the boy looks completely at peace and it shatters something inside of her. Tears her down the center where she is struggling to decide if he is better off this way or not.

No sooner does that question erupt in her thoughts, than she feels as if she has killed Stiles herself by entertaining such a notion. Somehow, she has betrayed the young man laying before her by wondering this and it burns like acid through her veins. It festers in her guts until it feels as if it will hollow her out and that still wouldn't be punishment enough.

"God, Stiles ... baby boy ..." The words drip from her thinned lips, splashing across Stiles' prone form as if they will somehow revive him. "Why would you do this, sweetie? -WHY- would you end it like this? Was it to protect us? It had to be. It's the only way you would leave us like this." She finds herself squinting at his forehead when she slips into the awareness of moisture gathering there. Pooling in a slowly growing puddle of odd, shiny fluid. It takes far too long for her muddled brain to realize that it is tears. Dripping from her contorted features, dribbling onto his waxy skin and collecting there. She is tainting his body with her sadness but she cannot stop. The sluggish fall of tears will continue until she is dried up, wrung out, and unable to continue producing them.

"I think ... I think you broke him." She whispers the words, assuming it is out of respect for the situation of the dead, but almost leaning toward it also being .. because she just doesn't have the energy to fully project her voice. "The Alpha, I mean." Is there need for clarification for the dead, or does he already know everything she wishes to say? "I think his heart stopped when yours did, Stiles." A half hysterical giggle bubbles up and she shoves a ragged palm tightly against her lips to keep any other inappropriate sound from escaping as she squints down at the prone form. 

"S-Stiles .. s-son ... I don't know what to do. I just .. I don't understand." She can feel heat building around her eyes. The sticky, bitter heat of adrenaline and tears pulling at the skin until she wants to scream again. "Why .. there has to be a why, baby, there just -has- to be." She is wailing. A soft grade sound of suffering she cannot soften to save her life. 

"N-next .." The word is a half stumbled, shrill whisper of confusion. As a nurse, she knows that there are -steps- to this. Not just the grieving process, but actual, physical actions that must be initiated, but her mind refuses to follow the path of that thought to conclusion. Because if she acknowledges those steps, then she must truly admit that Stiles is gone, never to come back. "Oh god. Scott. He's going to be so lost without you .." She sucks in a breath, the acrid scent of cold and death cutting through her and nearly raising the contents of her stomach. In fact, she reels back, snagging the edge of the sheet to cover the body once more before she turns and quick steps from the room. She cannot continue to torture herself in the hopes of getting past her grief. 

She yanks her cell phone from her pocket the moment she is free of the morgue, sweaty fingers nearly dropping the hunk of plastic as she struggles to remember what icon does what. It takes her several minutes to call up contacts and shuffle through them until the word Sheriff is highlighted.

"This is the Sheriff. Leave me a message, I'll get back to you. Stiles, don't even think about filling this thing up with nonsense." Melissa sucks in a breath and releases it in a gut-wrenching sob at the mention of Stiles.

"J-John ... I'm sorry, but .. It's Melissa. Stiles ..." She hiccups viciously as she searches for the right words. -Are- there even -right- words for a moment like this? "A-at .. at 12:33 am .. S-Stiles was.. de..cl...declared .. dead. He.. he slit his w-wrists. Oh god, John .. I ..." She snaps her thumb down on end call, unable to continue on.

It's not the right words.. not in the least, but ... they are all the words she has. She pulls the phone down, away from her ear, so that she can stare at the display. It feels as if she is mentally wading through an ocean of molasses, struggling to be able to follow the path of one thought to the next. She once more scrolls through the contacts, nearly dropping the phone when she sees Stiles' smiling face. She barely manages to tap Scott's avatar with a shaking finger, guiding the phone to her ear.

His voicemail. Some part of her is almost relieved that she won't have to talk to him. Part of her is grieved, that he's not there.

"Sc-Scott .. baby .. I don't. I can't." She chokes on another sob, her hand moving between the screen of her mobile and her mouth, pressing into her lips as if to somehow silence the pain spilling out. Of course, to do so, she must give up the ability to speak and that is not a path she can currently take. "Scott, Stiles is .. he's gone, baby. I'll try and be home soon, but I just don't know. I love you, son. So very, -very- much." She slaps her thumb across end call, the phone finally beginning to weigh too much. She doesn't bother trying to catch it as it slips from slick fingers and shatters upon the hard tile. Why would she bother, when in the very next moment, her own legs have given out and she joins the broken pieces on the floor. Her arms, a shaking mess, wrap tightly around her waist as she begins to scream. To shriek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Grieve, Peter Gabriel


	4. The Sheriff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have updated the tags for this fic to include a certain type of violence, as I don't want it to trigger anyone.

* * *

_**Carry on my wayward son .... there'll be peace when you are --** _

With one hand drumming absently against the well worn leather of his steering wheel, his other shoots out to quickly turn off the radio. The last thing he needs is that odd little song playing in the background. Once a favored of his, the appeal has long since shattered after hearing it, time and time again, at the beginning of that odd supernatural show Stiles loves so much, blasting from his son's room at all hours of the night, even blaring when he and Scott were on the front lawn practicing lacrosse passes. The repetition definitely dulled his interest.

In the very next moment, he is almost happy that the song came on. It's better that he take the remaining leg of this car ride in silence, anyway. Though, no sooner has that thought passed, then he is glancing at the passenger side of the cruiser. So many memories of Stiles curled up there, stained with curly fry grease, buzz cut shiny in the dashboard lights. Mouth moving a mile a minute, hands swooping and diving to accent every point as if it were the most important one he would ever make. In some ways, he thinks himself so very lucky that he can associate some aspect of his job with his son. And yet, another part of himself feels ... well, such a failure as a father, for the fact that he has had to have his son in the passenger side of a cop car so often, because he simply couldn't afford to leave him alone at home. 

He shuts down the maudlin thought, tired gaze sweeping from side to side before he turns onto the road he really doesn't want to go down. And yet, it's time ... god, is it time! He fiddles with the lights, switching to his high beams as he navigates the pathways leading in between. He has the route memorized, despite the fact that he never comes out here. Hell, it was always Melissa giving Stiles a ride because he could not bring himself to do it.

He really should do something for her. Melissa McCall has been there for his family in a very big way and he will never be able to repay her for it. But maybe he should try. Women like that, right? He smiles at the emptiness around him, pulling the cruiser to the side of the path and parking. 

There is a sense of dread in him that is confusing. He knows that he should not be feeling so apprehensive over something that should be simple by now. Routine, even. He knows that he should have been performing this duty along side his son years ago, but .. it still feels too raw and fresh. Ridiculous, given the amount of time that has gone by. But maybe ... maybe loss is something one never fully gets over ... and maybe that's okay.

He shoves the door of his cruiser open, a breathy groan ripped from him as he pulls himself free of the vehicle. It's the dreaded 'old man' noise and he momentarily begins to wonder when he got so overworked as to start making that sound. If Stiles were with him, he's sure his boy would have half a dozen things to say, jokes to tell, cracks to wise. Because his boy is clever and witty like that. A little too much so, truth be told, and one of the reasons he's here. 

He meanders down the path, glancing about every now and then, taking in the macabre sights. Some part of him wants to place a hand on the butt of his gun, hoping that the familiar gesture will restore some of his equilibrium. The other part of him knows that it is a foolish ritual that will provide no comfort here because he should not be feeling so spooked. There is next to no chance that some horror is going to jump out and pose a threat here. It's sacred, or so it should be.

The Sheriff jerks to a stop, feet suddenly leaden when he realizes that he has arrived. Tired eyes squint into the darkness, his hand falling to his belt to unhook his flashlight. Another memorized response. He powers the light and flicks the beam in front of him, wincing faintly. Yup, there it is. Looks exactly the same as it did the day it was installed ... he swallows a groan and forces his feet to work. Step after step, one in front of the other, he forces himself close enough to reach out.

To trace the words beloved wife. 

No sooner does his fingers touch the granite than he feels as if an electric current has been funneled through him. Something harsh and painful has singed his finger tips and he immediately pulls back. Expels a breath that sounds suspiciously like the ghost of a sob. Thankfully, there's no one in the cemetery tonight to have heard that vulnerable sound. After a moment of hesitation, he turns. Steps around the headstone until he's standing behind it. Another hesitation and then he is sinking to the ground. Carefully pressing his overworked back against the granite. Using the structure to keep him stable when he feels stuck between the actions of bones vibrating out of his skin and muscles freezing more rigid than the Statue of David.

Carefully, he rests his head back so that his gaze is angled toward the clear night sky. For one odd, surreal moment, he feels as if a shaft of moonlight has managed to illuminate him like a spotlight. In the next moment, he has shaken the thought off and allowed his eyes to close.

".. I'm sure you're up there pissed as all hell at me, Dee." Though he is alone, he finds himself whispering the words. Almost more of a prayer, really. Not that he's the type to pray or anything. Only in the context of 'God, let Stiles be okay.' Or maybe 'Jesus Christ, let this work out.' The kind of prayers that come in the darkest hours when things can go to hell in a hand-basket in 0.5 seconds.

"I think ... god, I think I screwed our poor boy up." Each word of this confession is wrenched from his lips forcefully. He doesn't want to admit this, but knows that he must. If only to himself. Despite the pain of this admittance, it is also ... surprisingly freeing. For the first time in several years, he's able to drag in a true, rejuvenating breath. Hell, he's pretty sure his shoulders even straighten a little bit. "He's gone from being our bright, attentive boy to .. well, to more of a teenager than I -ever- thought he'd be. But it's more than that, Dee. He's actively lying to me, love. Hiding something dangerous and no matter how hard I try to get him to talk to me, I just -can't-." 

He finds himself sniffling, the stench of damp earth, churned grass, and trees ripping a sneeze from him. His head bangs lightly against the gravestone and he takes a moment to offer a silent apology before he presses on.

"He spends all of his time getting Scott in trouble, or doing ridiculous things like stealing an armored transport from the precinct. Did you know he -actually- got a -restraining order- taken out against him? Sure, it was by that little shit Jackson Whittemore, but still. Where did I go so wrong, Dee?" He swallows a whimper of emotional pain, his palms clawing at his thighs as he struggles to keep it together. He did not come here to breakdown, but rather, to put himself back together again. 

"If ... if you were still here, I don't think Stiles would be this way. If you were his parent, he'd still be a happy, well adjusted kid. I fucked up royal, Dee. Every damn decision I made was the wrong one. God, I wish you'd lived and I'd died. Maybe then he wouldn't be hiding so much. He could always come to you with anything. But after you died ... I lost my mind, love. You ... you'd be so damn disappointed. I started drinking, neglected the boy. I ... fuck, I -blamed- him, Dee! I thought it was his fault you died, and suddenly I was saddled with a hyperactive kid I didn't have the first clue on how to deal with. If I wasn't overworking, I was drinking .. it all added up to me neglecting him. I'm honestly surprised nothing bad happened during that time." He rears back, and this time, he forces the back of his head to connect roughly with the granite, though he knows that there's no reason for it. No real hope that he will somehow manage to knock some sense into himself.

"I came home one night, about .... uhm, two and a half months after your funeral. I was so exhausted I was kinda ... swaying on my feet. The moment the front door was open, I was already thinking about where my bottle of Jack was and trying to remember if I had enough to get to sleep on." His voice has changed. Sharpened into a depth of self loathing he hasn't felt in so very long. "Anyway, I got about halfway toward where I kept it, when I realized I could hear something. It was ... was the sound of Stiles throwing up. Big, heaving sounds of sick, followed by these soft, deeply pained little whimpers. My first, honest reaction was anger and I wasn't even sure -why-. But it pissed me off that he had managed to get sick while I was at work. So, I marched up, yanked the bathroom door open and -demanded- to know what he had done to make himself sick." 

He flinches at that. Carefully pulls his knees toward his chest and hangs his head in utter shame. Because he is. He's so fucking ashamed of his behavior that night. What kind of parent -blames- their kid for being -sick-!? Never has he hated himself more than whenever he thinks of that night.

"Christ, you wouldn't believe what he did, love. He -apologized- to me for being sick, and then said it wasn't his fault. You see, he hadn't .." His voice breaks. Shatters with guilt and shame and he hangs his head a little lower. His next words such a soft whisper he's not convinced he actually speaks them aloud at all. "Fuck, he hadn't -eaten- in -two days-. Because I hadn't given him any money to eat at school and I didn't have anything in the house. He was too young to have any pocket money, so he was puking his guts out from hunger." 

His voice cuts off with a half sob as he tries to banish the memory of this. The overwhelming guilt, disgust and surprise he had felt in that moment. The realization that drinking and avoiding everything had become more important than keeping his own kid -alive-. 

"It nearly broke me, realizing that I had let things get that bad. That I was -killing- our son through neglect. You -never- would've let something like that happen, Dee. Stiles would never have had to question your love for him, never would've lost his faith in you like he did me. Can I really be surprised he's keeping things from me? He probably still doesn't fully trust me. Can't say I blame him, no matter how badly it hurts. I --" He blinks in confusion, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone. When the words Melissa McCall flash across the screen, he hesitates for a single moment before sending the call to voicemail. He's too emotionally wrung out to deal with the woman right now, assuming that Scott and Stiles have done something silly to irk her off again. Wouldn't be the first time, sure as hell won't be the last. As much as he loves his son, he's always going to be a handful.

"Ugh. I guess it's getting late, love. I should be heading back home, make sure our little hellion is doing okay." With a groan and a grunt he manages to gain his feet, rolling his eyes at the aged sounds he makes before he manages to steady himself. "I love you, Claudia. I miss you so much, love. I .. I'll try to come by more often, okay?" He reaches a trembling hand out, patting the top of the gravestone gingerly before he skirts around it and heads back to his cruiser.

* * *

The drive home seems to be taking forever. Each mile stretches on endlessly, until he is practically aching with the need to get to the house and see his son. All of his maudlin reflection has left a hole in his heart that cannot be filled by anything but seeing Stiles and knowing that the boy is okay. There is an overwhelming urgency, in fact, to make sure that he's safe.

He bears down on the gas a little heavier, feeling the cruiser judder and jitter as he picks up speed. The creak of his steering wheel is ominous an makes him feel sick to his stomach with a mounting sense of dread. He hopes it is simply his instincts amped up into overdrive because of visiting the grave of his wife. 

He clings to that theory right up until the second he hears his scanner crackle to life.

".. I repeat! If anyone has eyes or ears on the Sheriff, have him contact me or Melissa McCall IMMEDIATELY!" The desperate voice of Deputy Jordan Parrish sends his heart to fluttering. No. Just ... whatever the hell is going on here, NO!! Is he a terrible person, that his first subconscious thought is that he hopes it is in regard to Scott and not his own son!? Is he a bastard, a son of a bitch, for having that thought?!

Forcing slow, steady breaths, he struggles to keep his cruiser on the road as he grabs for his radio.

"Parrish, this is the Sheriff! What on Earth's going on, deputy?!" There's a razor sharp edge to his voice that he cannot dispel because fear has latched deep into him and refuses to let go. Something is wrong. Very wrong. His desperation to get home suddenly increases tenfold.

"S-Sheriff .. we've been trying to get in touch with you for half an hour at least. There's ... sir, something's happened." His breath hitches, his heart thumps painfully, and his lungs burn with a deep ache as he forces his cruiser off the road, onto the shoulder. He throws the car into park and bears down on the steering wheel.

"What the fuck is going on, Parrish!?" The carefully controlled facade he has learned to put forth over the years cracks and shatters as his apprehension grows. Because if the deputy is stalling this badly, it -has- to be Stiles. After going to Claudia's grave for the first time for the purpose of venting about his son .. he's not sure he's strong enough to handle anything having happened to him.

"Sheriff ... John ..." Parrish's voice cracks slightly and the Sheriff can already feel his heart trying to stop. "Ms. McCall tried to call you, but it went to voicemail. We've been trying to radio you ... it's Stiles, sir. He's .. he's gone, John. He was brought to the hospital with self inflicted wounds on his wrists. He coded and was declared ... was declared dead at 12:33 am. I'm so sorry, John." Whatever else the man may have said is lost in the haze of confusion and denial. 

He feels the atmosphere around him shrinking. Or, at least, it feels that way, because suddenly, he cannot get enough breath to save his life. There's not enough oxygen in the world to make him -want- to breathe! Not if .. if this is somehow ... true.

"S-Stiles .." The word is choked from his closing throat, hands reaching up on instinct to claw at the side of his neck. He can feel welts forming from ragged nails actively trying to break the skin. He wants it to hurt. Wants to rend and break his skin, wants to BLEED because it's the least he deserves at this point. "God. Please. No, just ... just NO. It -can't- be Stiles!" Words tumble from his open mouth, all meaning lost to him as he tries to wade through the overwhelming emotions ricocheting through his mind. He feels numb and oversensitive all at once. 

He turns on a dime, anger and wrath bubbling up so ferociously that he has to let it out. He kicks at the tire of his cruiser, knees the door with a howl of anguish and rage. On a whim, he brings both hands up, fists clenched tightly as he does a one-two punch against the driver side window, whimpering in pain as the shattering glass digs into his flesh. 

He continues, making a circuit of his car. Beating the hell out of himself even as he demolishes the vehicle. By the time he collapses against the front bumper in exhaustion, he is a bloody mess of glass riddled skin, sweat, and tears. His uniform is ripped in several places, blood smears his hands, arms, and even his face, and bits of glass and twisted metal jut from his knuckles. His car is dented, broken, and cracked in so many different places. It looks almost more like a car wreck than an angry man kicking the vehicle.

His head hangs low, his breath coming in short, staccato bursts, hindered by the wailing sobs he doesn't realize he's releasing. At least, not at first. It's not until his throat begins to hurt, shredded raw by the projection of his pain, that he realizes he's crying. Weeping. His shaking hands reach up, smearing more blood across his ragged features as he tries to wipe the tears away. Instead, he simply mixes blood and tears until his cheeks, brow, and lips are a garish, pink mess. 

His mind is a twisted, terrible mess of grief and pain. Of anguish, despair, and hopelessness. To say that he isn't thinking straight would, of course, be a vast understatement. All that he can think, is that he's lost everything. First his wife was taken by some vicious, wicked disease that made her think that her own child was trying to kill her. That somehow, her precious baby boy was capable of plotting her demise. And now, their child, their beloved son, has killed himself. Self inflicted wounds to the wrists ... what the fuck had become so bad in his life, that Stiles would rather **_KILL HIMSELF_** than let his Dad help him!?

Had he truly instilled such a heavy sense of distrust in his son, that death was preferable? John tosses his head back, another howling sob ejected from blood and tear crusted lips as he tries to understand. Struggles to find some kind of sense or logic to this mess, but he can find none.

Instead, he finds himself envisioning his future ... it is bleak and depressing because he has outlived his wife -and- son.

First, he pictures the house. He and Claudia bought the place when they realized that she was pregnant. Their little one room apartment was rather useless in the face of an impending kid, so they went house hunting .. and found the perfect place. It was a good looking place in a nice neighborhood, with room to grow. 

And now, it's a large, empty monument to the family that he failed. Oh god! He's never going to hear Stiles running up the stairs like a herd of elephants. Never going to scowl playfully at him to get his ass off the kitchen counter, or to stop drinking the milk from the carton. Never again is his baby boy going to chastise him to eat better and watch after himself. He's never going to have to guard another case file, because his son won't be there to try and coax any details out of him. 

Because Stiles is dead. 

His baby boy will never draw breath again. He's going to have to bury him right next to Claudia, both of them taken far too soon.

There will be no boyfriend or girlfriend to intimidate, no pictures when Stiles dresses up for Prom and graduation. No grandkids. No future. He is suddenly hyperventilating, vaguely reminded of Stiles' panic attacks shortly after Claudia passed. 

Stiles is dead ... Stiles is dead ... his only child, his beautiful baby boy ... **_IS DEAD_**. 

His vision is swimming, his hands wrenching down to his sides. His thumb smashes against the butt of his gun but he ignores it for now. Presses his palms flat against the ground beneath him as he shivers and quakes through the after shocks of an anxiety attack. Each breath is strained, weak and pitiful. 

Carefully, he begins to move. Writhing in pain on the ground when he feels it. His gun digging into his hip. The idea is swift and all consuming. It feels as if the answer has flashed before him and he actually breathes a sigh of relief. Because now he has a game plan. A clear path of -action- to take now that he is 'calmer.' Well, he believes he is calm and in his right mind, but grief is a son of a bitch that will so sugary sweet and convincingly lie to you. 

"Dee ..." He sighs his beloved's name, his eyes flicking closed without his permission. He is too tired and worn out to wish to see the world around him. It has been washed out, turned to a grey, unimportant mess now that the decision has been made. He carefully snaps the button on his holster, taking the familiar weapon in hand. For so many years, he has given and given of his soul to protect the people of Beacon Hills. Has spent more time helping strangers than his own son. (Or so it feels.) He weighs the gun in his palm for a moment, before he lifts it. Carefully presses it against the vulnerable flesh of his temple. 

There are a thousand reasons -not- to do this. If not more. Reasons he has told dozens of people over the years when he was called in to try and talk them down. To -save- them.

There's -one- reason -to- do this, and it's the only one that matters; his family. If he does this .. if he pulls the trigger .... he will be with his family again.

"God .. forgive me .." John has no clue who he is seeking absolution from, but in the next moment, he doesn't care. Because he ceases to have a single care when his finger squeezes the trigger and his world ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carry On My Wayward Son - Kansas


	5. Scott

* * *

Scott jerks awake, a pained gasp ripped from him as a sense of dread settles deep in the pit of his stomach. He would like to say that this is a new development. That this pit of dread has only recently developed but that would be a raging lie. Since shortly after he was bitten by a rogue, twisted Alpha, that dread settled in, hollowed him out, and refused to budge. But it -does- seem a bit more active these days. The fact that his bed sheets and covers sport huge gouges from his claws and teeth is testament to how well he hasn't been sleeping lately. 

He glances around, wincing when he sees his pillow leaning haphazardly against his closed bedroom door. Sees the way his torn bedding is flowing over the foot of his bed and onto the floor. Apparently, his dream was a rather violent one. A shiver of fear trips down his spine, causing his hands to clench reflexively in case he has to fight his claws back.

Another look around his room and he realizes that it's dark outside. Not that surprising, since he had immediately passed out the moment he got into bed that afternoon. Sleep and safety, the two things that have been most illusive since his change, leaving him a half-mad wreck struggling to make everyone he cares about believe that he's a-okay. When he's anything but.

Huffing to catch his breath and slow the racing marathon of his heart to a normal rhythm, he carefully repositions himself on the side of his bed. Momentarily considers digging out his old inhaler the way that Stiles showed him, but immediately dismisses the idea. What kind of werewolf needs an inhaler, anyway?

The thought of Stiles conjures an ache deep inside of him. He knows that he's been neglecting his friend in favor of Allison and his 'furry little problem' as Stiles likes to call it, and a part of him feels bad for that. Even in the deepest of Stiles' obsession with Lydia, he never once ignored him. But, comparing the two of them does very little. They are, after all, individuals. He will find a way to make it up to his best friend. Or brother. Because they have -always- thought of themselves as brothers and no amount of biological change is going to subvert that fact. 

Dwelling on musings of his friend brings another surge of that overwhelming sense of dread spiked with an unhealthy dose of fear. He feels as if something is spiraling out of control and somehow, in someway, he's already too late to save the day. He breathes deep and quick, shoving himself off the bed and turning to survey the damage. He'll have to get a new set of bedding. Thankfully, he has enough set aside to do so every couple of months. He's gone through far too many sets of sheets if he has to have a bedding fund on standby. 

He roots through his fallen bedding, grumbling tiredly to himself as he collects the materials and wads them up. As he carries them through to the bathroom, he blinks in dulled surprise when his phone tumbles out of the mess and onto the floor. Oh. He must've knocked it down while he slept. With a sigh of the put upon, he tosses the bedding and retrieves his phone with a groan. It would be so easy to curl up and go back to bed and he probably would've done just that if he hadn't seen the little icon for missed calls and new voicemail on his phone. Some part of him thinks he should ignore it and go back to bed. His eyes feel gritty and faded around the edges, casting every thing in an odd, colorless haze. 

He taps the icon and enters his voicemail password as he turns the cold water on in his bathroom sink. Once he's plugged it up, he hits speaker and sets the phone on the side of the sink.

"God. For once in your fucking life, you couldn't just pick up the goddamn phone, could you, Scott?!? No, of course not. What the fuck do you care if it might be a life and death situ --" Derek's irate voice catches him off guard, his eyes widening as the Alpha drops F-bomb after F-bomb. 

"Enough of that!" He mutters disdainfully, quickly moving on to the next text before he cups his hands under the cold water and splashes his face with it, washing away the sweat of his sleep. He splashes his face several times, shuddering and gasping as the chill cuts through his tiredness and wakes him up fully.

"Sc-Scott .. baby .. I don't. I can't." The pain in his Mom's voice causes his body to physically jerk as he quickly scrubs the water out of his eyes, head cocking to listen to the message. "Scott, Stiles is .. he's gone, baby. I'll try and be home soon, but --" His breath exits in a deep whoosh of confusion even as he lunges for the cellphone. Of course, it's just his luck that he sends his mobile careening into the sink, water shorting it out almost instantly. 

"No ... no no nonononono!!" He snarls the words, teeth peeled back as he shakes the phone uselessly. His mind is rebelling, swearing up and down that he did -not- hear what he thinks he did. There's no way his Mom left a voicemail saying that Stiles was gone. There is no reality in which Stiles is GONE and he is still here. After all, he's the werewolf. He's the one that has to fight tooth and claw to survive. (Though that's not entirely true, is it? Hadn't Stiles been captured by Gerard and beaten? Captured by Peter Hale and offered the bite? Smacked around and misused because he's werewolf adjacent??) He stares blankly at the sopping piece of tech in his hands, desperately willing it to do something, to somehow be okay so that he can review that message. Because of course, upon review, he would find that he had misheard. 

Because he would -know- if something happened to his brother! There would be some .. some supernatural extrasensory sense -telling- him that Stiles was hurt, if not dead! And then he remembers ... the yawning pit of dread, the deep-seated ache when he thought about his best friend/brother. He had felt it, hadn't he? That strange sensation telling him that something was wrong, that something was -missing- from this world and he had bypassed it until hew as further awake.

He collapses to the floor, phone falling from lax fingers to fall and shatter on the cold floor. A few drops of water fly out, dappling his bare torso but he barely feels it. How can he, when every inch of him, inside and out, now feels numb? As if someone administered a shot of Novocain to every cell of his body. 

The anxiety from earlier ratchets up into full blown panic when the truth of Stiles' being gone finally manages to sink in. Oh God, he's never going to call Stiles up at 1 in the morning just to hear the familiar timbre of his best friend's voice. He's never going to roll his eyes at an early morning text asking some off the wall, bizarre question. There will be no more lacrosse practice, gossip about Lydia or Allison, no more moments of utter acceptance, friendship, and assistance, no questions asked. 

His breath rushes out on a hitched whine from deep in the back of his throat. Instantly, he understands. This is like every bad asthma attack he ever had. His lung ache, struggling to work, to fill with enough air to reach every part of him, but they simply do not have the ability in this moment. 

It starts with his shoulders hitching. Jerking and shaking as he struggles to both straighten and hunch down, basic confusion and anxiety giving him conflicting commands to make it all better. He struggles to breath quick and sure, but then remembers that it's supposed to be slow, steady breaths. By this point, his fingers have transformed to sharp, deadly claws and he has begin to slice the vulnerable flesh of his throat and chest as he paws desperately at his skin, trying to make it better. Trying to -BREATHE-. But instead, he is merely reducing his body to a macabre horror show of rended flesh, frayed edges and blood. 

It takes only moments for the damage to heal, but it does nothing to cool his freak out or end his attack. His vision begins to eclipse at the sides, his body free falling until the back of his head pounds against the tiled floor. Blood pools in his clavicle, drips down the curves of his shoulders, into his armpits and down to the ground, creating a sticky mote that surrounds him as skin begins to knit back together.

His lips taste blue, his hearing glows bright and his mind is mild mush incapable of functioning as less and less oxygen gets to where it needs to be. The last thing he remembers is feeling cold and all alone, wishing Stiles was there to hold on to. And then his vision goes smokey and blur and he passes out.

* * *

Scott wakes with a wordless shout of agony, his fingers and throat aching with the tightness of dried blood. His skin feels taut across his knuckles and adam's apple, his back aching from being prone on the uncomfortable tile. Carefully, he pushes himself to a sitting position and then onto his feet. Trembling hands grab the edge of the sink, feeling the porcelain creak from the lack of control over his strength. 

He jerks his hands back, staring at the rusted red flaking from his skin with a sort of morbid fascination. Since receiving the bite, he has seen more than his fair share of blood. Has cleaned so much of it off of his skin, but this different. This is his first glimpse of blood, his own no less, with the knowledge that Stiles is gone. He can't call his best friend up just to hear his voice and let it calm him. Can't let his spastic brother remind him that underneath everything, underneath all of the changes, he is still Scott McCall, resident potato and best friend.

With a bestial roar, he rears back and smashes his fist into the mirror, watching the spider web of cracks form before the glass explodes out. There is something sickeningly beautiful about the sound the shards make as they rain down onto the sink and into the water. Trembling almost painfully, he plunges his fists beneath the waters and nearly gags as the rust-red blood begins to peel off, creating macabre swirls of pink through the glass filled water. His stomach turns and lurches, but by some miracle, he manages to keep himself from getting sick.

"S-Stiles .." The name slips, unbidden, from his chapped lips, and tears follow close on it's heels. Fat, hot drops that roll down his cheeks, snag on his uneven jaw, and then plunge down into the bloodied waters. "Fuck. Stiles." This time, the name is wrenched from him in some strange hybrid of a pained groan and an anguished wail. He turns on a dime, throwing himself out of the open bathroom wall and toward the first viable target he can find; his desk. His computer is thrown with blinding accuracy, smashing out his bedroom window and hurtling to the ground below. The drawers and doors are ripped off, leaving behind twisted skeletons of splintered wood and warped metal. His desk lamp flies through his closet door.

He flips his bed, sharpened claws rending the mattress and sending up a shower of stuffing and springs that create a cloud of metal and fluff around him. 

Just as quickly as the fit began, it ends. He falls against the wall, hunched over the crossing of his legs as he struggles to catch his breath. As he tries to find some sense, some -meaning- in all of this. 

Stiles is gone. Dead. He doesn't know the details, doesn't understand what happened, but he has to assume that it is somehow based in the world of the supernatural. There's no way in hell that something as mundane as a random act of violence or an accident had claimed the life of a young man that survived a blood-thirsty rogue alpha and a rampaging Kanima. Because if -that's- what happened, then the world is truly a cruel, injustice, unfathomable place that will never make sense to him again. 

He throws his head back, wincing when it connects with his wall, rattling his brain a little bit. It does nothing to make things better, of course. There is no instant understanding of how life is supposed to continue now that his rudder is gone, no game plan for dealing with the large hole burned deep into his heart.

Because Stiles is gone and there's not a damn thing the werewolf can do about. None of his 'superpowers' can bring back his best friend or make this cruel thing not be true. In the face of death, he is helpless and it is a terrible, terrifying feeling.

"You can't -leave- me, Stiles." His voice is hoarse, rusted. Sounds as if he has gargled acid and chewed stones, as if he hasn't used it in an age. The emotion so raw and unplugged that he feels heavy with it all. "We promised that no matter what, we'd never leave each other. That -nothing- would pull us apart ... not distance, college, girls, or the supernatural. But you -left- me." He is sobbing now. Half curled into himself, arms crossed over his midsection as if trying to hold something in.

"I can't do this without you, Stiles. We're a package deal, remember!?" He's whining, soft and pathetic, in the back of his throat. An animalistic sound of agony as he tries to get himself under control. But how does one contain or control such sorrow!? He throws his head back, against the wall again, a howl of pain ripped from his sore throat.

He was not, in any way, expecting an answering howl. It takes him a moment to remember that he has a broken window, allowing his howl to breech the house and filter out, into the night. So, maybe he shouldn't be so surprised that someone had heard the sound and mirrored it back? What -does- surprise him, in every way possible, is the fact that he -recognizes- the howl. It's not really something he had ever stopped to think about, trying to identify one of the other werewolves by howl or roar, but this one cuts right through him, hammers against his already shattered heart. 

Derek Hale is howling with such gut-wrenching grief that Scott actually stops breathing for a minute.

Because no matter what has transpired between them, no matter how estranged they were, Scott cannot stomach the sound of -anyone- in that much pain, even after the anger-filled voicemail he had refused to listen to. Though, it begs the question ... why is Derek Hale, Alpha werewolf and the one that glares the -most- at Stiles, howling his grief and anguish for all and sundry to hear!? 

Scott leaps to his feet and turns, not bothering to think rationally enough to take the stairs and the front door. He throws himself out of his fractured window, taking off at a dead run the moment his feet hit the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you Again, Wiz Khalifa Featuring Charlie Puth (One of the Most Beautiful Songs I Have Ever HEARD!!)


	6. Bonus: Derek Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me! This is going to be a very emotional chapter. 
> 
> Thanks to every one who followed through this dark, sad piece with me.

* * *

Derek's Alpha roar rips through the treetops, sending birds and nocturnal creatures fleeing in fear as he cries his anguish to the skies.

The forest he once considered his greatest haven as a child has become something alien and terrifying. The heavy copper scent of Stiles' blood has seeped into the trees, into the very ground beneath his feet. It is an assault upon his senses, a cruel prank to his broken heart. Because with that all too familiar scent stuck in his nose, permeating his tongue as he struggles to catch his breath, he could so easily lie to himself. Could fool himself into believe that somewhere, hidden deep in these woods, his Stiles is waiting for him. As if life could be a fairytale, despite the existence of such fantastical creatures as Weres and things. 

But he's not that fucking lucky, is he?! No, there is no happy ever after for Derek Hale, is there!? He's caused too much death, pain, and destruction in his life to be given something as precious, beautiful and wonderful as Stiles Stilinski. No, there is nothing in these woods but the painful memory of what could've been.

Oh. Wait. There is one other thing these woods have to offer.

He comes to a complete stop, barely manages to dodge a low hanging branch before it rakes across his cheek. In fact, he is vaguely aware of feeling the ghostly wind of it near his skin, though not quite connecting. Not that it matters. Bodily harm has never been a problem for him. When your body heals almost -anything-, injury becomes another way of life. A common factor of your every day. After all, how many times had he come close to dying since returning to Beacon Hills? The one that leaps to mind, of course, is the piercing feel of his Uncle's claws through his chest when the Rogue Alpha attacked him outside of Beacon Hills High. That had been the most terrified he had been since the loss of his Pack/Family. The physical pain had been overwhelming, though the emotional had been almost as bad. 

It is twisted and disgusting that the memory of his Uncle's claws in his chest sparks an idea. The decision is so swift and -right- that he has never felt more justified in the attempt of an action. So much so that a sense of utter peace and calm overcomes him. The solution is so obvious. It is not elegant nor will it be simple. In fact, it's going to hurt like a son of a bitch, but he deserves that, doesn't he? He failed Stiles and the teen he loves suffered horrendously for it. How could he deserve anything less than the same suffering?!?

He turns suddenly, barely managing to dodge more branches as he takes off toward a new destination. He has to fight the deep desire to run straight to the clearing where he killed the bitch that took Stiles away. Even if she didn't cut his veins herself, her petty desire for revenge lead to the act of Stiles killing himself and if he could kill her all over again, it would be slow and torturous. Would take weeks, if not MONTHS for her to suffer before she died. But then, if that were true, he could resurrect his beautiful Mate.

He chuffs and shakes his head almost violent in a bid to rid it of the sudden plague of -what if- thoughts. They are useless. Just bitter words piling up in his brain, doing little to soothe the ache of missing his Mate. In fact, it is simply aiding in enraging him further and he really needs a clear head to get this done. Well, no, that's not entirely true. He could see this through on autopilot, but he -really- doesn't want to. Because he owes his Mate more than that. Much more than that.

So, off he goes. Keeping his mind completely occupied with and focused on the task at hand. 

Three miles through the Preserve and there it is ... his endgame. His last ditch effort to tip the scales back to balance and pay for the life that has been taken. No, he did not cause Stiles' death, no matter what the barmy bitch had said, but as his Alpha, he had let him down. He had let his Mate step right into harms way by not realizing that there was a threat hovering in the background in the first place. 

He jerks to a stop, nearly falling over in his desperation. He utilizes his supernatural vision in search of his destination and releases a harsh, trembled breath when it comes into view. A single flower sticking up from a pile of fallen, discolored leaves. A nearly hysterical huff of breath ghosts from his lips as he takes off at a jog, desperate to get to the bloom before any number of things can go wrong. Because they -always- do, don't they? Every time he tries to do what he thinks should be done, something bad happens, gets in the way, interrupts his plans and leaves him scrambling to try and adjust. 

He hits his knees with a soft grunt, nails lengthened into sharp claws as he begins to rip through the dead leaves until he reaches the soil beneath. His claws sink into the ground, slicing through the roots of the flower so that he can carefully pluck it up, into his palms. He has always loved wolfsbane as much as he hates it. Because it is so fucking -beautiful- despite how damn deadly it is. (An oddly reoccurring theme in his life. Hadn't Kate been the same way? Beautiful and deadly. The same ind of slow, rotting curse as the bloom cradled in his hands.)

Shoulders hunched, he finds himself lifting the delicate petals to his nose, breathing in the scent of the deadly flower. Something he had never dared do before, for fear that he would inhale the pollen and die a slow, agonizing death. That doesn't really matter anymore, does it? The scent is a confusing combination of delicious and cloying. In fact, he sneezes in three quick successions before he pulls the bloom back and stares down at it. Not the most attractive color, or the prettiest of shapes, and yet ... god, it is beautiful in it's own way.

"It should be red." He laughs mirthlessly as he makes that dry observation. "At least then, the cliche of all of this would be complete." Slowly, he stands. Pushes himself to his feet through sheer leg power, refusing to compromise the flower. He turns and walks for the first tree he can find, sliding his back down the rough bark until he's sitting. Using the tree to hold him upright as his gaze slides toward the night sky. "A red flower, like that fucking hoodie you wear. How can you run with wolves and wear red, and it not be stupid or ironic?! Honestly, you looked so good in that beat up old thing. It's not a full moon, either. It should be a full moon so that it's .. I don't know, more tragic and romantic. More symbolic." 

He chuffs at the ridiculousness of his own words. They had never expressed an actual interest in each other, and he's talking about something romantic. Is he crazy? A small part of him says yeah, but the majority of him? The majority of him is sick and fucking TIRED of losing everything he cares about. Tired of losing family and pack, and as far as he's concerned, Stiles had always been the second and would have one day been the first. Because he truly believes that he and the teen would've been so good together. They got each other in this strange, sassy way that just made life better. Not perfect, because perfection doesn't really exist, but better all the same. 

Derek's entire body jerks in surprise when he hears the distant sound of feet furiously flying across the forest floor. He tilts his head back, nostrils flaring as he scents the air and nearly chokes on the uniqueness of Scott McCall. No! If there is -one- person he -doesn't- want to see right now, it's that sanctimonious little bastard! Because he knows. Scott would do everything in his power to -save- him and Derek really just -doesn't- want to be saved this time. Not one bit. 

With trembling breath, he smashes the flower petals against his palm, rubbing the pad of his thumb against them until they have become a gooey, chunky mess against his skin. He then proceeds to coat every single one of his claws in the deadly, toxic substance. Cakes it deep under his claws and across them, until they are encased in the stuff. He leans forward, sinking his fangs into the material of his shirt and gives a mighty jerk of his head. Shivers in morbid anticipation as the fabric tears and frays, leaving a jagged opening over his heart. 

"Your smile and your laughter lit my whole world." He quotes Ranata Suzuki with a bellow of pain before he sucks in a deep breath, exhales sharply .... and plunges his wolfsbane coated claws deep into his chest. He feels it instantly. The moment the tips of his claws break through ribs to tear into the vulnerable flesh of his heart. At first, it's a kind of piercing, familiar pain. Because Peter's claws had felt like this. Weapons of destruction and betrayal flaying his rib cage alive. Of course then, it had managed to miss his heart by some miracle, so he knew that he would survive. But this?

Derek's head reels back, connecting painfully with the bark of the tree as he throws up one last howl of pain and agony. His eyes glaze over almost instantly as the wolfsbane begins to burn. Begins to break down the muscled, pumping walls of his heart. It feels ... fuck, it feels like someone has taken a scalpel and shredded his heart in several places before inserting a syringe of battery acid, letting it leak through his veins. 

Carefully, he wrenches his claws from his heart, teeth gritted against the unimaginable pain even as his life blood spurts and gushes from the gauges. Seeping down to join the dried vitae of his lost Mate. In some strangely morbid way, this is right. It is only -right- that their blood should mingle in Derek's last moments in this world.

"DEREK!?!" Scott's voice is not the herald of salvation that he probably means it to be. Instead, it represents the destruction of everything that he's trying to accomplish because he doesn't -want- to be saved, damn it! "Derek, what the hell is going on? I heard you howl! What happened??" There are notes of frenzied mania in his voice and Derek can understand that. Scott is struggling to find a situation he may actually be able to control and help in. He was helpless to save his brother, but at least with Derek, there is a chance. Of course, he's operating under a false notion, because the Alpha already knows that it's too late. 

"Sc..o..." He cannot fully speak the younger man's name. Trying to pronounce it causes black goo to bubble up from his open mouth. The sticky, viscous fluid slowly dribbles down the sides of his mouth. It's gross and tastes like death, which is more of a blessing than any sane person should see it as. But then, is he sane? Hell no! His last chance for sanity departed with the ceasing of Stiles' heart. 

"Damn it, Derek, was it hunters? Do I need to get you to Deaton!?" The teen wolf's hysteric desperation is increasing with each passing second, and Derek actually feels sorry for putting Scott through this. Not enough to want to live, but still, it's an improvement for him to feel regret where Scott McCall is concerned. 

"N..o.." Derek chokes again, more inky black spilling over his sticky lips and flowing down his cheeks and pooling on his shoulders and throat. He doesn't want Scott to get the wrong idea, doesn't want him to be afraid of what might be coming after him on the tail of losing his best friend. So, in explanation, he carefully lifts his claws. Shows the teen wolf where the wolfsbane is still clumped under his nails, mixed with his own blood.

"Oh .. god .. D..Derek .." The disbelief in Scott's voice is almost tangible, but so is the sorrow and genuine pain. It takes far too long for his fuzzy brain to realize that Scott is -sad-, that he -cares- about him. His limbs feel like iron weighs rooted in a gravity well, but still, he manages to lift his hand. To rest his slick, aching palm on Scott's shoulder and squeeze feebly.

"S-sorry ... S...t...iles...." It takes every last bit of verbal strength he has to speak his Mate's name, but he manages. If it is to be the last time he speaks that name, he will get it out no matter what it costs him. Of course, it's muffled and distorted as he turns his head and spews a fresh wave of vile black across the floor forest.

"For fuck's sake, Derek, WHY would you do this, damn it!? Haven't we lost enough!?" The words are a scream of despair, the teen wolf reaching down to shake Derek's body almost violently, causing the Alpha to whimper in pain as he struggles to keep from throwing up more black.

"He .. was... m...at...e.." The words are forced out through the obstruction in his throat, his entire body convulsing in pain as his lungs and heart seize at the same time. Scott flips out. He howls, whimpers, and sobs all at the same time, creating an odd sound that is the embodiment of anguish. Derek's hand migrates from his shoulder to grip at the nape of his neck. Forcing Scott to look him in the eyes.

"They .... ne...e..d... yo..u." He forcefully clears his throat, whimpering at the pain of it. "Be their Alpha, Scott." He manages to speak clearly for the first time since this began, and he knows that is a bad thing. Because in the very next moment, his body arches up, off the ground, his head turning in just enough to projectile vomit the last of the black sludge from his body, the putrid mess pooling in the ground with threads of blood in it. 

He does not have a last breath ... does not have a moment of clarity before that he is dying before he is just .. dead. Between one heart beat and the next, he is gone. Eyes staring, vacant, at the night sky, hand falling to his side as he goes limp and unmoving.

* * *

There are so many theories about what happens when one dies. There's the Life Flashing Before Your Eyes, theory. The Light At The End Of The Tunnel, Theory. 

Derek doesn't experience either of these. Between one breath and the next, he goes form lying on the forest floor, to standing over himself and Scott. Watching the teen wolf wail with fury and grief, clutching at his lifeless, prone form. 

"... I'm sorry, Scott. You'll be a better Alpha, though." His eyes flutter closed, hands lifting to rub down his face. The first thing he notices is a lack of blood and black on his hands. There is nothing sticky or rusted and he breathes a little easier with that knowledge. It had hurt, badly, drowning in that black goo, struggling for each breath, each syllable he had to speak before he could pass. Which of course, reminds him of Stiles. Of the way his beautiful mate had been diminished at the end, pale and cold. It stabs at his heart, to remember that, and he fights back tears.

"... I have half a mind to punch you, Derek Hale, even if it would break my hand." His entire body convulses and shakes even as he jerks around to find the source of that voice. 

And there he is. Stiles Stilinski, standing tall, proud, and beautiful. Wearing that fucking RED HOODIE, with that impish smile that has lit Derek's life up since they met, even if it seemed to rarely be pointed at him. 

"Damn it, sourwolf, the whole point was for you to -live-, you dumb ass! I did .. what I did .. so that everyone I care about would -live- and then you go and shove wolfsbane coated claws in your chest!? Were you really that damn ready to die!?" The smile has shattered from his features, replaced by a furious scowl that should cut him to the quick, but how can it!? Stiles is HERE, right in FRONT of him! That revelation lasts for a few seconds before his nature rears it's head and he scowls right back at the human.

"No, Stiles, but what the fuck was I supposed to do, live WITHOUT you!? I can't, okay! I've lost EVERY THING and there was no way I could just go on without you. I just .. I couldn't." He feels so quick to emotion. As if the last barriers of his careful self control have crumbled away and left him raw and vulnerable. He can even feel the prick of tears stinging the corners of his eyes. "You left and I had to follow. You .. you're my .." He cannot bring himself, even now, to voice -that- word to the human.

Good thing for him, Stiles has -never- had a problem saying what he couldn't. -Doing- what he couldn't. Even as he's struggling to find a way to make himself talk, Stiles has crossed the distance between them. He has carefully laid his arms around Derek's shoulders and tilted up, to press his forehead against the Alpha's. 

"I'm your Mate, Alpha. Which is -why- I wanted you to -live-, baby, not rush off to join me. God, watching you do that, knowing there was nothing I could do to help. But then .. I guess that's how you felt, when you found me." There is a hitch in the human's voice, even as he tilts his head to ghost his lips across Derek's jaw. "I'm sorry you had to go through that, sourwolf. But, you know why I had to do it. You would've done the same thing, if it came right down to it. After all, we're a lot alike, baby." Derek sucks in a breath, at a complete loss for words. Not the first time, of course, but still. The last thing he wants is to be speechless with Stiles pressed up against him. 

And what the fuck is wrong with him!? He slides his arms around the human's waist, pulling him closer. God, for the first time, he has his arms around Stiles and it is glorious. They fit together just right, allowing Derek to sink into the comfort that Stiles is offering him. 

"Y..You're right. I would've. Especially if it saved you, Mieczyslaw." He watches, with some small hint of amusement, as stiles' eyes widen and then narrow dangerously. Can feel the teen's hands move so that his fingers dig into the nape of his neck in an almost wolfish sense of chastisement.

"Oh hell no, you did -not- just bust out with my real name! How do you even -know- that name, Derek!?" He laughs, not to belittle his Mate, but because the reason is so ... simple. 

"What, you think you're the -only one- that remembers the past, Mischief? You recognized me in the woods ... and I recognized you, too. How any one could forget a name like Mieczyslaw, is beyond me." Stiles features redden immediately, his eyes dropping in embarrassment at the Mischief part. Yes, he couldn't pronounce his own first name, so he called himself Mischief. But, the fact that -Derek- remembers that seems to bowl the youth over.

"Wow ... just, yeah, wow. You've been holding out on me, Derek Hale." The werewolf winces at that, nodding slowly. Because it's true. Derek never took the chance to tell the human that he loves him .. that they could be Mates .. that he wanted Stiles in his life forever and a day, if possible. 

"Don't worry, sourwolf. This is the afterlife, baby. We got forever to get it right. I love you, Derek Hale ... and this is the beginning of our happily ever after." Derek leans forward, swept up by the beauty and promise of those words, pressing a kiss to the human's lips. Finally.

"... forever sounds kinda cool." He closes his eyes and presses his forehead against that of his Mate. Stiles is right .. they have forever, now. He can live with that.

**Fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Will Follow You Into the Dark, Deathcab For Cutie


	7. Bonus Tracks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the rest of the soundtrack for this fic. The songs I listened to, to help inspire me.

* * *

Angels, Within Temptation

 

Bones, Young Guns

 

Coming Home Pt II, Skylar Grey

 

If I Die Young, The Band Perry

 

Clarity, Sam Tsui

 

Save Me, Remy Zero

 

Goodbye Agony, Black Veil Brides

 

Exhile, Enya

 

Gone Away, the Offspring 

 

Unstoppable, The Calling

 

So Cold, Ben Cocks

 

Let it Be, Across the Universe soundtrack

 

Hold On, Good Charlotte

 

Glass Vase Cello Case, Tattle Tale

 

Waiting for Superman, Daughtry

 

Run Baby Run, The Rigs

 

I Found, Amber Run

 

Last Kiss, Pearl Jam

 

All of Me, John Legend

 

Running With the Wolves, AURORA


End file.
